Revolt
by ArthurRPer
Summary: A discussion between Alfred & Arthur during the American Revolution. NON-CON.


An RP between myself and my favorite Alfred. Rated mature for non-consensual, violence &amp; angst. Posted exactly as played. Beware of typos.

Alfred woke up to the sound of the morning horn, the taste of coppery blood thick in his mouth, gunpowder stink feeling as though it had sunk all the way into his bones. The sun cast the early morning sky in a red hue, as though the blood from yesterday's awful battle had soaked the sky itself. Days start noise began to fill Fort Stanwix as the blond man left his bunk, another soldier falling into it after night's guard duty almost as soon as he left it with hardly a word of acknowledgement.

It didn't matter the Alfred the was embodiment of the country these men were fighting for, they were tired, beaten, worn down. The battle of Oriskany had been fought and dubiously won just yesterday. It had been one of the bloodiest battles he had ever seen. Bodies had littered the ground like falling leaves in the start of the cold season. The little creek that had puttered through the middle of that cursed ravine had been filled with the blood of Americans, British, Indians, and Hessian alike. No one had escaped that fight without some kind of wound.

It had been a hard night. Some of the men hadn't slept, Alfred saw the haunted expressions on their dirty faces. He had felt the ring of history when the ambush was sprung on their marching troop. Under the command of Lieutenant Colonel St Ledger they had been moving towards Fort Stamwix to provide reinforcements for General Herkimer who was repelling a large force of British soldiers. If they managed to seize that fort key supply lines would the cut off and then New York would be next from there. The revolution would be dead on the ground if that fort was taken, and the Americans knew it.

Poets and News men would like to believe that there would be a sense of hope after such an important "victory", but so many men had lost their lives when they had been flanked, outnumbered, and seemingly without hope. Alfred still wasn't sure how any of them managed to walk away from that fight. Cheer wasn't high on the list of emotions these soldiers were feeling, and he couldn't blame them one bit.

The revolution wasn't going well. Alfred could feel the dissent of the people. They had so chaffed under British rule, so many had been willing to take up arms and fight against injustice, but now the Loyalist forces were growing. People just wanted the war to be over, the bloodshed and gunfire no longer seemed noble and righteous to the people who had to witness it, and much less so to the people actually fighting.

The cool August air felt good on his face as Alfred left the camp and headed to a nearby river, maybe a mile from camp. He'd heard rumors than England, Arthur himself, was on the way to American soil. That thought was heavy in his mind. Part of him was excited... he hadn't seen the British man in years... he hated that he felt that way. Another part of him filled with resentment. It was because of him that he had become involved in this whole bloody mess. Conflicting feelings rolled back and forth through Alfred's mind as he walked through the disturbingly silent woods.

The river was not a big one, but it was enough that you could wade in and the water would come to about your waist. Alfred had spotted it on the march to the fort. It would be good to bathe in the company of trees, rather than 400 other men. The bubbling of the water reached his ears as he approached, eyes on the lookout for any animals, or lingering enemy soldiers. Luckily for him, there didn't seem to be anything to be worried about.

He undressed slowly. His uniform practically stuck to his skin with dried blood, most of it not his own. The enemy forces had charged them, and the fighting quickly devolved from "civilized" rifle battle to bayonets and military sabers. He felt the blood and sweat of the previous day over all of him and being clean was something he looked forward to more than ever.

Alfred knelt down by the side of the river and dunked his uniform in the chill waters. He'd get it properly washed later, but taking the time to wash off and them putting the dirty garments back on his body seemed repulsive. The red, white, and blue fabric was heavily stained. He was pretty sure his pants would never be the proper white color ever again, but it wasn't like he could simply ask for another. They hardly had enough guns for everyone, much less uniforms.

After scrubbing what he could, the blond man hung the dripping clothing over a low hanging tree branch to dry and hoped the morning sun didn't make them too stiff. Blue eyes scanned the sides of the river carefully, before beginning to enter the water. It was cold, goose flesh rising instantly on his skin, involuntary shivers making his body twitch. He continued until the water touched his navel and then dunked himself, his fingers carding through his hair and scratching at his scalp while he was submerged. Other than the bone chilling cold it felt wonderful, he could feel the gunk and dirt and blood loosening and being washed away by the gentle pulling of river's current.

Alfred suffered alongside his men.

Arthur did not.

Arthur's men suffered_ underneath_ him. Centuries of blood-christened politics had caused Sir Kirkland's sense of unity to callous. 'Human' was not a label he wished to associated himself with. Mortals were small-minded, petty creatures; only inspired by immediate gratification. Man was unable to see farther than his own, short lifespan and this disgusted Arthur. Thus he moved his troops across boundaries as carelessly as a chess master placing pawns.

As England's will, he was present for all events, but rarely was he more than a strategist leaning thoughtfully over the checked battlefield; A puppet master. Self-preservation was a priority and so, he preferred not to entangle his physical efforts in the throes of combat, but this time he could not deafen the call to arms. Alfred's rebellion had severely damaged Arthur's pride. It was beyond brazen for a colony to defy a kingdom. It was blasphemy. Arthur had placed himself in the ranks in order to teach his predecessor a lesson..._personally._

The Brit's penance for retribution had not left him unscathed. He was just as tatted; Just as charred and filthy as his pawns. His state reflected his people as a whole and currently, he was looking rough. He had developed a limp due to a recent bite of shrapnel. His hands were dark with smears of dirt, blood and gunpowder. His hair was more tousled than usual; Blanketed by a dust of grit that had nearly deepened it's hue to Burnett. It hung in limp strands over his face. A bandage decorated his left eye. Thick reds and yellows had seeped through the gauze, determined to hint at the worsening mess underneath.

With each battle, England grew more desperate to regain his grip on the colony that had slipped through his fingers during adolescence. Arthur's recourses were lessening. Fewer and fewer able-bodied men were at his disposal. Granted, the Americans were still outnumbered, but each of them was fiercer than ten British soldiers combined. They were fighting for a cause -_the only cause_ _worth dying for: _Freedom. America's resolve seemed to be blazing out of control. A wildfire devouring it's way forward - Pushing the British closer and closer to the shore; urging them to retreat back into their ships and return to the motherland. Arthur had no intention of giving up. He'd fought his way from the first shoreline, eager to see blue eyes cry.

England's troops had been advancing for days, growing closer to their newest objective with the metronome of a march. They had retired late the previous evening. Quietly. Without complaint. It wasn't until dawn that their shuffle had started again. As his men numbly made ready for another trek, Arthur took the opportunity to temporarily rid himself of their clattering presence. "I'll come back shortly. Be ready upon my return." He issued a singular command before brushing passed a slew of pine needles and vanishing into the woods.

Arthur stepped over snapping twigs and crunching leaves, working himself into a private, onward frenzy. Part of him wanted to ease out of his human mask and continue on until coming face to face with the underling who had wounded his arrogance. But such a display would be disgraceful...wouldn't it? And should something happen to him along the way, it would mark the assured defeat of England. Aw, but wouldn't it be a relief not to have dozens of men clamoring at his back? Not to have to stop and eat...drink...sleep. To just_ be_ in the way the wind _is_ \- the way the sky or the ocean follows the moon without falter? To hunt without distraction. "If only."

The soothing melody of water trickled its way in to Arthur's ears, begging him to stop and listen. His mind slowly began to cool and he let out a breath of resignation. Arthur's visible green eye settled listlessly on the scenery ahead: A river, hidden only by a thin wall of branch and bush. Peaceful. Perhaps Arthur would have accepted the water's invitation to soak his feet if not for a glimpse of blue on the other side of the bank. The wet garment was doing its best to weigh down some convenient shrubbery; Dripping with ominous vibrancy in the warmth of the sun. Kirkland immediately reached for his weapon, slinging it around his shoulder into a forward position. His rifle's bayonet glimmered against a single ray of light as he crouched to balance his shot a well sized rock. He patiently scanned the scene... waiting. As soon as the water broke to allow Alfred air, Arthurs shoulders stiffened and his finger twitched over the trigger. The Brit's face had hardened to an expression of focus.

He did not recognize his adopted son; Not right away. His mind had been too focused on preparing for a clean kill. It wasn't until the other stood and turned to face the sun that Arthur's resolve faltered and his face lifted above the guns sight. He stared with stupefied horror as upon being presented with_ exactly_ what he had wished for not five moments ago. Arthur looked around himself, as if hoping for some kind of reassurance that he was not having a hallucination. Alas, there was no one to confirm or deny the vision ahead. Abruptly, the Briton bit his lower lip and forced himself to return to his feral hunch. He looked down the shaft of his weapon, telling himself over and over that it would be best to end things now while such an advantage was at hand. His brow strained with the weight of intense focus as he watched the man he'd raised. Alfred movements - in spite of everything- had remained familiar. He still reflected the child who had insisted on crawling into Arthur's shower every morning before breakfast. Washing with a clumsy sort of oblivious joy. The shake in Arthur's sender hands spread to the rest of him like a flu symptom until he had to look away in defeat. He clenched his teeth and closed his eyes; Miserably pensive. He couldn't do it. Not this way.

He sat motionless for several moments, unable to grasp any sort of decision. When he finally stood, it seemed that his legs were moving of their own accord. His mind felt far away, though his grace was sharp and his grip on his gun was steady. Arthur had no plan. He was acting on impulse. Helpless...cruel...impulse. His body took high, calculated steps over brush and water alike. The boisterous river easily drowned out the sound of his approach while filling each of his black boots with sopping frigidity. Arthur circled around the back of Alfred very slowly, keeping a good distance away- Gun never dropping from aim. The Briton was as entranced as a stalking cat; completely fascinated by the others unmindful state. He couldn't help but drawn in. It was like being pulled towards the others shoulder blades like a magnet. He_ had_ to see the point of his Bayonet prick the others back. It was a ray and inescapable desire. The closer he grew, the more amused he found himself by the others obliviousness.

Alfred scrubbed as much as he could before the need for air started a singularly uncomfortable burning in his chest. He could stay down longer than the typical human, but his body still required oxygen. He broke the surface of the water, the semi-clear liquid pooling at every available part of his body, sticking to him as well as it could. Water filled his ears for a moment and for a while all he could hear was his echoing heart beat pounding in his head. His hands tracked familiar patterns down his body as he washed himself more thoroughly, careful of tender spots but still being sure to clean any injuries.  
He'd gotten lucky. So many men around him had been killed, maimed, made lame by the ongoing hostilities of the revolution. Not to say he didn't have more than a few new scars of his own. The battle around Fort Ticonderoga in New York had given him a twisting scar across his left leg where a falling shell had brutally hit the soldiers just to the left of him. One near miss in a long line. White Plains, Trenton, Princeton, the line went on, all adding their memories to the expanse of his flesh.  
His mind wandered back to the battlefields that his body left long ago. Even now, he could still hear screaming. The whimpering sounds of people in pain, people unable to help themselves, laid low by a war he wasn't even sure they still all believed in. The blond man could feel the growing dissent in his bones, the peoples need to have the fighting be over would soon overwhelm the freedom they so bravely fought for if they didn't get some good new from the war front soon. Strategy and what intelligence they could glean from the enemy forces flowed through his mind, the pace much more choppy then the water that currently flowed around his waist.  
The sun was moving in the sky as he washed himself, the first time he had felt clean in months. It would be time to head back from this peaceful moment soon. He hadn't brought his musket, but his knife sat near his clothes. He had gotten moderately skilled in it's use with the help of some of the other soldiers, but it wouldn't protect him from everything. He looked up at the sky, his own blue eyes mirroring the bright azure of the early morning, and let the sun fall down on him for just a little while longer. Warm and bright, exactly the opposite of what he had to go back to. Anyone would take a last moment to enjoy the situation and Alfred was no exception.  
-

With each step closer, Arthur's legs grew heavier. They were slowly, but surely turning into chilled blocks of iron underneath his kneecaps. His heart thudded in spite of itself. The Briton's body was in charge - allowing no thoughts to register clearly in his numbed mind. Joints seemed as stiff as stale taffy. Muscles rubbery as sap. Bones as brittle as crackers. Each part of Arthur was simply following the instinct to move forward. His green eyes sharpened while focusing on their target. His bayonet moved forward in a matter that was almost...graceful. Silent and steady, it's tip found comfort against the upper part of Alfred's spine. It glistened with runoff from between the American's shoulder-blades.

In the seconds that followed, Arthur felt something shift. Cognitive thought floated back to the surface of his mind. His hands acknowledged the details of his weapon. He swallowed. It was as though a bubble of certainty had popped around him the moment his blade had pricked the spine ahead. This awakening was not welcome. It brought about the sudden realization of how large America had grown. Up-close he appeared to have the makings of a responsible adult. Arthur found himself uncertain of his own motives. Had he wandered out here to END the other? To converse? To torture? To capture? As the other shifted, England felt his defenses spike. He confirmed his stance and darkened his own expression. "DON'T move."

Alfred felt his whole body tense up at the pricking feeling on his back, he had to fight the urge to bring his shoulder blades as close together as possible. The harsh voce behind him made the water still around him seem colder than ice. "DON'T move." The fine British accent surrounding those words was enough to give him a reasonable jolt of fear, but that fact that he knew that voice, the recognition was enough to make every hair on his body raise up and though trying to run away from his very skin.  
The American did his best to fake an unconcerned laugh, but it was pitched too high and he knew he wasn't going to fool Arthur, much less himself. He lifted his arms, hands palm forward and bent at the elbows in the usual sign of surrender, before leaning his head back just a bit. "You're not gonna stab a man while he's naked are you, England? That's not sportsman like."

Alfred's awkward response yielded no amusement on Arthur's behalf. "You don't feel I am entitled?" Metal pierced through the American's dripping flesh, forcing a single droplet of crimson to trace downwards over watery paths. "_You _stabbed _me_ in the back while my defenses were down. This ironic situation is surely a result of karma." The Briton's voice was eerily flat. It held notes that were usually reserved for enemies. He would have been unable to hide his bitterness - even if he had wanted to. Arthur's virant gaze briefly absorbed Alfred's nudity. A quick glance up and down without pause. He had seen his colony nude time and time again and had no pension of shyness now. Nothing seemed different from this angle (save for some blossoming muscle definition.)

-

A quick bit of pain made Alfred's breath hitch, worried that it would be more... but that's all it was. He felt like the other man was testing him. He listened to what the other had to say and felt himself relax a little bit, his arms dropping a few inches. If Arthur was going to talk to him he at least had a chance to figure out how not to get stabbed... for a little bit anyways.  
"Says that man who saw fit to treat his citizens like disposable income just because we were too far away to speak up about it. "No taxation without representation"." Alfred paused for a moment, when he spoke again his voice was oddly serious. "I think we've both done our share of back stabbing here."

Alfred's response, merited as it was, only soured Arthur's mood further. The Briton made an unpleasant sound in his throat - as though he had just swallowed something bitter. Quick as a cat, he spun his weapon and offered a cruel blow to his captives shoulder blades before readjusting to his previous stance. Alfred possessed a quick-witted sense of justice. The yank could dispel false statements with humored accuracy. Charming as it was, Arthur had always found his adoptive nation's casual talent to be infuriating.

"To the shore." Alfred would feel himself shoved forward. Arthur could be heard sloshing dutifully behind. The Englishman had to be mindful of his steps. The stones beneath him were slick. And hip-high water for Alfred meant waist-high water for him. He kept his rifle poised and his eye sharp as they moved to the shallows. The moment Alfred's toes were greeted by the sandy shoreline, the back of his left knee was kicked forward. His center of balance would falter with the assault and soon his knees thudded to a collection of mud and sharp stones below.

Water trickled from Arthur's form as he stepped around to observe the front of his enemy. Stray droplets flickered over Alfred's back and hair. Shimmering slick boots swept into sight as Kirkland circled. He stood quietly for a moment, then used the edge of his bayonet to lift the others chin. Sure enough - his colony's face displayed the bruises of battle. Deep down, the dismay of an over-protective parent stirred in Arthur's stomach. Unfortunately it was too submerged in bitterness to become evident to either party. "I thought I'd raised you better."

Alfred heard the slosh of movement in the water, but wasn't wholly prepared for the blow to his back from the butt of the other's weapon. His torso went forward from the blow, the stinging pain in his shoulders more to grab his attention than really hurt him, at least that was how it felt. An order and another shove pushed him forward. The lurching awkward steps of moving through water made the process somewhat slow, but his mind seemed to race. He kept his ears trained on the other man. His only hope was that Arthur's boot would catch a loose rock or something and he would trip, if he lost his balance the American had a small chance to turn around and disarm him before he was shot in the head.  
No such chance came. Mud and sand stuck to the bottoms of his wet feet as he came up to the shoreline of the little creek. A cold breeze against his wet skin was enough to make goose flesh rise all over his body in response, before a sudden hit sent his knees to the ground harshly. The Brit was in front of him, the tip of his blade to his chin forcing his nervously shifting gaze up and up to the other's face.  
Alfred couldn't stop the widening of his eyes in surprise, the sharp intake of breath as he looked at the others face. Never had he seen Arthur in such a state. He'd seen the other fight battles, wars, but never he had been injured so. His accented words struck Alfred as blue eyes continued to wonder his face, still easily recognizable but so marred by fresh scars, yellowing bruises, and haphazard bandages.

"You have to be there to raise some one." His next words were hardly more than a whisper carried by his unbelieving breath. "What happened to you Arthur?" Alfred's concern betrayed thick in that sentence. He hated the way England had treated his people, despised what he saw at a betrayal from someone he had considered honorable. All he wanted was the liberty he deserved... he didn't want to hurt Arthur like this.  
-

"You have to be there to r-"

"-You're so ungrateful." His words cut through Alfred's protest like a sharpened blade. "I_ made _you. I provided everything that allowed you to grow." The Briton's voice was flat. It's tone was factual to spite the unjust guilt it was attempting to instill. While Alfred may have been immune, Arthur continued to speak with great conviction. Clearly, he believed what was being stated. He stared down at the young country, unblinking.

"What happened to you, Arthur?" Though the question was acknowledged, Arthur made no effort to explain. What had_ 'happened'_ was an emotional break. It was extremely difficult...being a country. Especially one as recognized as England. He was as much his own being as a beckon for the people and at times, could no longer push aside his personal feelings for the sake of responsible rule. While Alfred's effect on **England **had been minimal (loss of lumber, mostly) - his effect on **Arthur** had been severe. Arthur Kirkland -_The real Arthur Kirkland_\- had been a very lonely island. For a very long time. He had grown shamefully fond on the others presence.

He was hurting. And his outer body simply matched his inner heart.

"You were entrusted with the honor of expanding my Empire. What I've asked for in return is not even comparable to what I've sacrificed in order to build and protect all that we've shared." As he spoke, Arthur took three slow steps backwards. He balanced his weapon's handle against his ribs in order to keep a steady aim while reaching backwards. One of his hands blindly grasped at the others damp uniform.

"...It's time to put an end to this charade." Alfred's coat made a thick plop as it was tossed into the water beyond his reach. The river's current immediately devoured the brave shade of blue, eager to wash away it's symbolism. "It's time to come home, Alfred." If the very spirit of this land was torn from its people, the rebellion would crumble. There would no longer be a colony. There would no longer be an_ America_. There would just be - Alfred; A 'once-was' that had been reabsorbed into the motherland's womb.

Alfred watched as the Brit tossed his coat in the river. Felt the other's words go over him, he did his best to ignore how it hurt to see England like this. Here he was, on his knees, naked and in the muck, in front of the other. Was this to be the end of his revolution? Was he to give up on his ideals to please the other, to heal what had been broken?

No.  
He would not give up here.  
Blue eyes tracked to green, defiance lit them brightly. "No, Arthur." Tan hands balled into fists at his sides, he wouldn't let a firearm intimidate him. "... I wanted to be... I really did want to be part of your Empire. In the end, you wouldn't let me." He wasn't as good with words at Arthur, never had been, but the american did his best. "My people are your people, and you denied them their rights. I can't just do as you say while they suffer. I'm sorry."  
And he was. He truely was. America didn't hate England, but he was the representation of his citizens and they chaffed against English rule, so Alfred had no choice but to fight.

Alfred's bravery; admirable as it was, would only reward him a kick to the sternum. Arthur had seen enough rebellion in his time not to be amused by this meager display. He had waged constant war with his brothers throughout his youth; Witnessed streams, rivers, oceans of blood. This tiny colony could barely stand on it's feet and yet, Alfred seemed determined to bark like an unruly pup. And unless one wants to compromise, there is only one way to silence a foolish pup.

Arthur had been intent on knocking the breath from Alfred's chest. No sooner had he done so, than he reached for the Americans white cotton undershirt. The shirt had fallen to the sand while mourning the loss of it's overcoat. As it was lifted from the ground, it presented smears of mud. The cotton would prove difficult to shred, but not impossible and after making an initial slice with his bayonet, England let his weapon drop so that his hands could achieve further destruction. He slammed his own body atop the boy below, confident such an act would hold the other down. Arthur had never been a large man, but he had been powerful one for quite some time and his perch over the Colony's heart would prove wise tactic.

An unfamiliar tint of madness colored the Briton's face as he shredded the others shirt and violently grasped for Alfred's wrists to bind them in the damp fabric. He would make no effort to allow circulation while wrapping the collection of tense bones together. Yes, England was swift, cruel and focused. He spoke in a rushed manner between breaths: "What are my people but a blink it time! Men come and go! Are you so_ stupid_ that you cannot see the true purpose of their existence? I am not going to** ALLOW** You to suffer for the temporary woe of man! I am not going to **ALLOW** you to defy me to appease your sopping sense of right!"

Arthur delivered a harsh jerk while finishing his work. The act would force Alfred's shoulder blades to scrape against the slick pebbles at his back. "You're coming home...whether you like it or not, Alfred J Kirkland." England, in fact, could not allow himself to be beaten down by a colony. It would mark his decline as an Empire. Surrounding nations would whisper at his back - he would become vulnerable. The world would know he'd lost his thick skin and then what? Would he be forced back into servitude by France? Eaten up by Spain? Alfred was not only missed - but a symbol. If one colony gained it's freedom through force, what would stop the others from trying? That and..."You belong with me."

Alfred felt the air leave his lungs violently as the other's booted foot collided with his chest, a slight edge of black appearing at the edges of his vision as he tried to right himself. He saw England grab his shirt, saw his drop his weapon. Just as the blond man tried to regain his balance and get up, seeing this as his moment to escape, the other's weight dropped on him like a sack of potatoes. The American's back collided with the shore line, even more mud sticking to his naked and still damp skin.

Calloused hands found a harsh grip grip around his wrists. "Arthur...!" He tried to struggle, tried to twist his hands free but he felt the sullied fabric of what was previously his shirt tighten around his wrists cruely. "Damn it, let me /go/!" The tanned man kicked his legs and bucked his weight up against the other. He was bigger than Arthur, but the island nation had all the leverage, he knew that but he had to fight. He couldn't let it end this way.  
"That's not true! A nation should live for its people!" Alfred lashed out with his hands, trying to hit the other in the chest hoping to knock him off balance so he could push him off and escape, his body writhing under the other. "I belong to my people!"

Arthur worked through the others struggle while wearing a stern expression. His movements were brisk and sure. He'd done this many times, most recently, in the underbelly of ships. "Oh, do stop your squirming. You're only making things more difficult for yourself..." The statement was void of humor. It expelled only an air of irritated effort as the Briton reached this way and that to restrain his underling.

Alfred had no-doubt witnessed Arthur's perfection of cruelty whilst assisting in the conquering empires agenda. Seeing; However, is always different that experiencing first hand. Arthur's body seemed heavy, to spite his lithe build. The Englishman's soaked trousers stuck around Alfred's ribcage, refusing to be thrown. They absorbed the American's heat into their threads, but would not allow the boy's flesh to dry beneath them. Their cotton was thin and in its damp state did little to hide the form of Alfred's captor.

Arthur's hands were indeed calloused - not from rifle fire, but from sword play. He was old...so very old. It was a source of pride for him and he flaunted it openly. Especially when Alfred was feeling disobedient. He was not humble about his age -_knowing more, seeing more, being more_. Kirkland had made a habit of dismissing his colony's thoughts as foolish more often than not. Alfred 'belonging to his people' would yield no exception. "...your- ha. Your people...ha, ha, ha. I had forgotten how blissful the ideals of youth can be."

Arthur would finally be thrown from his seat atop Alfred as the boy's tied hands sprung forward to strike at his chest. The smaller blonde went toppling backwards through mud and shallow water. He made an uncharacteristically wounded sound as he meandered to his hands and knees. Something that resembled a cough escaped him as he lifted to his feet...it returned to a laugh shortly thereafter. "Ha...haha..."

"You have no idea what you're committing to, dear boy. Really, you don't. I'm half tempted to leave you to your hell so that you can experience what a people can do to their nation. If only you know, you'd come crawling back to me." The Briton watched his colony struggle to a more secure position without concern. "They'll divide you - separate you into pieces of yourself you don't recognize. They will devour everything you stand for while bending you to their moral whims. They will rape your land."

-  
Alfred felt the other's weight leave him as he struck out hard at the man atop him. He hardly had time to enjoy the satisfaction before he was shifting his weight in an effort to get upright, the sound of the other splashing into the shallow waters and laughing in the back of his mind. He made his way quickly to the other's rifle before grabbing it awkwardly with his bound hands and tossing it into the river, effectively soaking the gun powder inside and making it useless. He made it to his pants before England's words stopped him. He grabbed the dirt caked white fabric, letting his arms relax in front of him for just a moment, the clothing covering him just a bit though he was still fully aware of his nudity in front of the other.  
Blue eyes scanned over the other, the bitter tone in the other's voice something he wasn't sure he had ever heard. "It's not going to be like that, I won't let it. I'll keep control; I'll help my people make the right decisions." Even as he said the words though, he couldn't deny the sense of worry that was now deep inside him. The American people were united against the tyranny of British rule... but what would unite them once the war was won? What could keep them together once the common enemy was driven away? Alfred didn't want to think about it.  
Tanned hands clutched at the fabric still held in front of him, ever mindful of the fact that he was were still bound. His little army issue knife was in the pocket of the pants, if he could get to it he could get his hands free and put his pants on before returning to the fort, but right now the priority was just escaping the other nation. He took one last look at him, the man who had taught him so much, the man who part of him still admired... "Farewell." The word was short and clipped, before he took off unto the woods behind him, doing his best to move at a decent speed while being careful not to step on anything that would injure him or get his foot caught in the undergrowth.  
-

Arthur's uninjured eye followed the toss of his rifle. He stared irritably at the weapon as it was laid to rest under a shallow current."Tch." He scoffed, "Your people are purebred miscreants. I hardly feel obligated to punish you. In time, they will do it for me." His green gaze slowly returned to Alfred, watching the other gather what remained of his clothing. There was no immediate concern present in Arthur's posture. It wasn't until the American turned his back to leave that Kirkland stepped forward. " -**DONT** _you walk away from me!" _

Arthur's boots put him at an advantage. He closed the gap between them quickly and spared no time in shoving his acquaintance forward with both hands. Solid palms slammed to Alfred's shoulder blades, effectively forcing him to become intimate with the nearest tree. As Alfred's chest met with rough bark, his back was burdened with weight; The warm, damp shape of Kirkland's form. The Englishman's thin chest heaved with a mix of effort and anger. Soon thereafter began a struggle to reach around and capture the American's hands.

The tone of Arthur's voice was enough to send a small shot of fear through Alfred, but though he tried to move faster the other was upon him before he could gain enough of a lead. Tan skin made harsh contact with the unforgiving bark of a tree as he was pushed over violently. The rough surface abrading his skin as he struggled against the other, his hands squashed between himself and the large plant life as he did his best to push the other off him, though his efforts weren't as effective as they would have been if his hands had been unbound.  
"Damn it!" The curse slipped through lips pulled thin. The weight against him made it difficult. He was sandwiched between an angry Brit and the unmoving tree, neither giving him any kindness. The more he struggled the more his chest hurt, but he knew he couldn't give in.

There was something intoxicating about confrontation. It heightened Arthur's senses, but numbed his inhibitions. He felt his mind slipping into a feral haze. The situation was growing dangerous for both of them and yet, he couldn't stop himself. Tree bark skinned his knuckles as he vigorously gripped at the American's wrists. When had Alfred's hands grown so large? They were now the calloused hands of a man. They were strong and nearly as stubborn as their predecessor. Arthur would be forced to fall back on a tactic that he had suffered while at the mercy of Scotland: Broken fingers.

After growing familiar with Alfred's pattern of struggle, Arthur used the American's own strength against him. He allowed the Yank's hands to pull forward, willing them to slam hard and fast into the tree ahead. Then he issued a particularly cruel slam to his captives back - forcing the others chest to reacquaint itself with rough pine...and twisted fingers. Having crushed Alfred's hands between the tree and themselves, Arthur held the other in place. His cheek rested at the nape of his colony's neck. He panted from strain; Soaked in the others pained breaths. The forest was momentarily quiet. The sounds of struggle that had once echoed through its branches now fell prey to a pregnant silence. Arthur awaited his prisoners scream.

His heart was beating faster than confrontation accounted for. He felt fevered to spite his damp clothing and the chill of shade. It was the_ anger _\- the immense hatred for everything that had gone wrong in the past decade. His empire was crumbling...and so was his sanity. His body could not comprehend his mental woes and so, attempted to relieve his frustrations with arousal. This only infuriated him more. Arthur's shape would be evident as it heated Alfred's left buttock, yet any attempt to move away only resulted in hurried slams back to the tree.

Alfred felt hot hands grab around his wrists, but he kept on struggling. Throwing himself back and forth, anything to get the other off him. He had to escape. A moment, just an instant, he felt something was wrong, and then he felt Arthur slam against him, his fingers sandwiched between both of their weights and the tree, the movement was greeted by a loud snap and a whole lot of pain.  
The younger nation grit his teeth, feeling that at least two of his fingers had been broken, if not more, his entire hand throbbed and pulsed with the sensation. It took over his mind for a moment as he pulled air through his still clenched jaw, unwilling to cry out. The presence of the other's cheek against his bent neck and the puffs of breath that ghosted over his skin gave himself something to focus on... until he finally noticed the other presence pushing itself against his naked rear end.  
Tan forehead leaned forward against the still rough bark as his fingers beat out a Morse code of pain, pain, pain. This was not a good situation in anyway. If he struggled he was more than likely to lose the use a of a few more fingers... if he stayed... who could say what would happen then.  
-

Silence.  
Silence...  
Silence...

Arthur grit his teeth, irritated by the lack of reaction. How could there be no scream? How could Alfred possibly tolerate such a break without so much as a moan? It wasn't possible. Arthur issued a slow squeeze to his opponents hand, hoping to verify injury. The slightest response would give Alfred away - and as it did, he would feel the heat of his opponent's breath at his shoulder. "Admit defeat. And this can end."

Alfred felt his breath catch in his throat as the other put pressure on his hand. For a moment his vision went white as a high ringing went through his ears. The initial pain of small bone breaks, such as fingers or nose was bad, but not so bad that it couldn't be dealt with. When that already broken area is agitated though... it's ten times worse.

The other's voice barely made it through. "I-I won't. Never." He pushed out the words, they were more breath than anything, but he did his best to steel himself with them.

"...Fine."

The word was sour with scorn. Arthur would proceed to tactfully gather both of his captives wrists in one hand - this task would prove manageable now that one of his colony's extremities were shattered. Alfred would feel a shuffle of movement at his back as the Briton's right hand slipped from sight. "You want to be independent? Allow to show you what that_ means." _Arthur's right boot kissed the inside of Alfred's bare right foot. It pushed - forcing the American's legs apart.

Fear shot through him like a cold bayonet to the gut. Alfred felt his heart go a bit quicker, a panicked drum beat against his ribs, as he legs were moved farther from each other. He remembered the earlier pressure he'd felt behind him. "You... You're not..." His throat seized tight around the words.

"-No? Who will stop me?" Newly freed flesh pressed against Alfred's haunches. It was not as warm as one would expect...instead, the length that threatened to grow intimate was chilled from damp trousers. Arthur's lower body was outwardly cold and clammy. It had not been allowed to steal warmth from the American's heaving skin. It had not been close enough to...until now. "You're alone..." The hand that had escaped Alfred's vision took up a new purpose, firmly gripping one vulnerable cheek with the intent of spreading it aside. "..._Independent._"The singular word came out as an insult. It wasn't a state of being, but rather, a new name. One which Alfred had selected.

Alfred renewed his struggles, a new sense of dread filling him up at the sensation of the flesh against him, the hand gripping at his exposed skin. The pain in his hand grew, be he was too worried about getting free to stop the gasping pained sounds from leaving his mouth. "Stop it, let go of me!" He felt adrenaline pump through his veins, the chemical helping block out the pain enough for him to push back against his captor. "You can't be serious!"

_Rome had been _serious.

_France had been serious. _

_Scotland had been serious._

Arthur was serious.

His feet slid backwards across the shore's mud. He stiffened as a well placed flail of Alfred's elbow struck just under his already-bruised ribs. There was fight in the boy yet, but such was to be expected. Alfred had always been gifted with great strength. Arthur would be forced to fall back on the American's broken limb, squeezing tighter and tighter; twisting until he had the other reeling with pain. Alfred's chest would scrap downwards against rough tree bark as he was forced into submission. His captor threw him downward, into the mud where he lay bleeding from an array of scrapes across his pectorals. A firm hand slammed to Alfred's temple, pressing his face against stone and sopping sand.

The american felt his elbow hit the other and felt a surge of hope go through him, before he felt the other squeeze his broken fingers even more, the pain making his body stiffen for just a moment. That moment was all the other man needed, England took full advantage.

Alfred could feel the small bits of blood on his chest, caused mostly by his own squirming, before he was pushed into the ground. The dirt and grime stuck to him grossly. Rough fingers pushed his face against the earth, much sliding against his face and forcing him to close his eyes lest they be fouled by the substance. He still tried to struggle against what he knew was coming, but he could feel the fatigue starting to set in. The sense of hopelessness like manacles solidifying on his limbs. "Stop it, stop it...!"

He couldn't let himself stop fighting... he couldn't surrender to this.

Alfred's captor would lean down to hiss into his ear. His tone was frigid; Reserved only for enemies and strangers. "No. I'm going to **invade**,you boy. I am going to show you EXACTLY what you have to look forward to for the next _hundred year_s of your...freedom." Then. Pain. Immediate and splitting. Alfred had not been gently violated, but impaled.

-  
Alfred felt the scream tear from his throat before he could think. Broke bones he had had. Cuts bad enough to require stitches. Concussions, bruises, you name it. But this... it was a pain unlike anything he had experienced before. It was like his spine had become a tunnel for which only that terrible burning could travel. "Arthur-!" The name was bitten out of his lips like a twisted mingling of a curse and a prayer. He felt tears form at the corners of eyes, only to streak down to join the mud on his cheeks.

Arthur was beyond the point of return. The nation that now held Alfred's face to cold earth was one of apathy and dark ages. Power could be communicated in many ways and the way in which Arthur currently participated was simply the most efficient when conquering an indomitable spirit - _Such as_ _America's._ Each thrust was calculated. None would convey the impassioned persuasion of lust. There was scarcely an expression on the Englishman's face as he moved forward again and again...and again.

Their surroundings would seem too quiet, boldly echoing every muffled cry that escaped Alfred's chest. The trees would seem too tall while witnessing the event. The stream, too still. The notable silence would serve to emphasize Arthur's every movement. His fingers would press over Alfred's cheek like small branding irons. The Briton's second hand held a sturdy grasp on his prisoners hip, propping him upwards like a dog. Arthur would continue extending this torture until the fight left his victim. He was determined to render Alfred still.

He felt, _Felt_, the other moving inside him with a clarity he wish he could snuff out. Such was the pain of the invasion that Alfred could hardly form a coherent thought. Every thrust of the other inside him seemed the push the air from his lungs in a mix of agonized groans and pathetic sobbing. Tears fell from blue eyes like rain as blunt finger nails groped the ground mindlessly, gripping at the dirt as through trying to pull himself away, though there was no escape from the crushing weight on top of him.  
The hand on his hip gripped hard enough that Alfred knew there would be a bruise when the enemy flesh finally left him. The trees seemed to stretch up and around him, like silent observers to the travesty taking place. The sound of the other man, the scent of him, surrounded Alfred like a military force, ever trying to beat him into submission. ...he could feel he will fading. He just wanted to be anywhere but here, and yet the torturous experience seemed without end .

Alfred couldn't help the stray though that he should have accepted France's ludicrous offer months before. At least that way, the first time something at all like this happened to him, he could have agreed to it.

Arthur's methods had never been subtle. He was the master of overkill; assuring that his authority would never be forgotten_ if_ ever it was extinguished. He had grown exceedingly good at delivering punishment with numb resolution. Now, with his adopted son shuddering beneath him, Arthur carefully kept his mind blank of memory. Of sympathy. His green gaze fell to focus on Alfred's tanned back; Surveying tense muscle and quivering water droplets.

Slowly, America's spine would soften - not with relaxation, but with reluctant acceptance. His shoulders slouched. His fingers clutched at the damp soil below, waiting for the invasion to end. Arthur could have pulled out then, but a dark part of him wanted to relish his emotional dominance. He wanted to _make sure _that his point had been made. The Englishman's fingers untangled themselves from Alfred's hair. He proceeded to turn his victim over, scraping the boy's already-damaged chest against an array of rough pebbles, branches and pine needles

Now on his back, Alfred would be forced to make brief eye contact with his attacker. Though only one eye was visible, the second still messily dressed in seeping bandages, it displayed a green venomous enough to be potent all on its own. Arthur continued to enter, touching the very core of his captive, clutching up both of Alfred's wrists the moment the boy attempted to cover his own, tear stained facial expression.

Sobbing, hitching breaths shuddered out from his rib cage as Alfred did his best to remember to breathe. The sound of his own respiration sounded loud in his ears, but not loud enough to drown out the noise of the act taking place and the other man.  
He felt the other begin to move, shifting him around. His body was shamefully pliant as he was turned over. The unmistakable sensation of blood beginning to make its way down to the ground from a wound he didn't want to think about caused a shiver to go through him. Next he knew, he was on his back, his tear stained and swollen face brought to bear upon the sight of the cause of his violation.  
Tan hands came up, unbidden; to cover his eyes, cover his face, from the other. He didn't want to see. Didn't want to truly know. This whole time the other had been behind him, out of sight. Some part of the American could deny that it was England, that it was _Arthur_, doing this too him. All too quickly hands like irons went around his wrists, the bones in his limbs scraping together as his hands, like the rest of him, were captured.  
His arms were pulled forward, away from his eyes. That last remaining safety gone. Blue eyes wondered almost drunkenly to the face of the man above him.

Arthur looked somehow both dethatched and furious. Dirty bandages were loose on the sides of his face, the wrapping seeming to be held to the skin only by the sweat that also cause his hair to slick against his forehead. The Brit moved back and forth with a disturbing finality, the push and pull inside was almost automaton-like. There didn't seem to be any feeling about it. It was just an act. It didn't seem to matter to the other at all, the dispassioned gaze unwavering.  
Alfred tried to look away, blue eyes still swimming in tears that ran rivers through the muck and grime stuck to his face. His whole body shook, sun browned thighs quivered on either side of the man still impaling him over and over. Still, the act continued. It went on and on and on and there was nothing Alfred could do by lie there on his back and shake. A slow mantra left him, the words "Stop... stop... stop..." echoing from him, his lips forming the words with a grime assurance that even if the other cared to notice he certainly wouldn't heed the American's pathetic pleading.

Alfred's broken voice would have been sobering if not for the madness that had overcome Arthur's sense of reason. His face only twitched in response; Irritated by the familiarity in his victim's tone. He entered to his hilt, slamming into the other with a final ferocity that would nearly cause rupture. Alfred's wrists would be released to fall away lifelessly as their oppressor busied himself with a final assault.

The Briton slid his left palm under his colony's skull, fingers caressing through mangled hair in an almost maternal fashion before snapping into a closed grip. His right hand balled into a fist above. What would follow was three, precise punches to Alfred's face. Each time, England forced the boys head to rise in preparation for another dose of 'medicine'. Every strike would prove cruel and sure. They echoed through the glade, causing birds to flee the surrounding the scene.

Having left blood and broken bone in the wake of his fury, Arthur gave broken into an exhausted pant. For a moment, his fingers remained entangled painfully in Alfred's locks. He stared down at the broken figure below without a hint of recognition - Only a silent rapidity. When he pulled away, it would be with a careless jerk of his victim's skull. The Briton stood, rather quickly, and closed his clothing with his back to Alfred.

The sudden freedom of Alfred's wrists was unexpected, but not as much as the alienly soft touch of fingers near the base of his skull before they clenched painfully, gripping his hair in a fist so tight he felt it would pull the strands from his scalp. A broken cry came from his lips as he felt the other go even deeper, harder, within in him before the first blow descended.  
His dirt crusted hands wondered weakly to the front of Arthur's uniform and grabbed at the fabric of it, pushing feebly. Pain exploded at both the base of his skull and in his face. He heard the sharp snap of his nose break echo within his head. His vision was overwhelmed with sightless white as his head snapped violently to the side with each contact of the other man's fist. After every blow he turned his head back forward, searching for a moment for green eyes before he was struck again, unable to focus on anything. The wet feeling of blood on his face was hardly noticeable in the face of the onslaught against his body.

Everything stopped, like time was called to a halt for just a moment in that forsaken forest. The hand still held his hair, pulling cruelly so his neck was bared out in an uncomfortable arch. Blue eyes blearily search for owner of those hands on him... the hands that had once helped him so much... now with his blood on them. The moment was shatter with a swift tug and a sense of emptiness, coldness so deep the American thought icicles would form from his blood.  
Alfred watched Arthur get up through rapidly swelling eyes. His whole body shook with a tiredness he had never known. He felt the urge to curl up on himself, to try to protect himself, but he couldn't move... and he was already beaten. In every way he could think of he was beaten.  
The ground was cold beneath him, the sun farther across the sky causing a faint orange glow to tint things, as thought they too were covered in the dirty copper red of his blood. A feeling of numbness assaulted him. ...he knew it would change to despair... and then in years to come anger... but for now he just felt like dying. Dirty... filthy... disgusting. ...how could he have let this happen? A feeling of guilt overwhelmed him as he lay, merely watching his attacker straighten his clothing as though this was nothing unordinary.  
Blackness began to eat at the edge of his vision, he wasn't sure what to do. Part of him wanted to just let go... fall away into unconsciousness. Anything was better than this. Maybe he would die of blood loss, or England would leave him here to be taken care of by hypothermia.  
Blue eyes looked up at one they once respected... loved. Alfred's voice cracked as he spoke, his voice rough and weak as his lips bled around the words. "...I don't know what happens when we die, but I'll pray to God every day for the rest of my life that you go to hell."

_"...I'll pray to God every day for the rest of my life that you go to hell."__  
_  
Arthur had shifted, his side now visible to Alfred. He looked over numbly at the American while fixing his damp coat collar. Arrogance remained presence in his body language, though his good eye had now dimmed to a pale gray-green. Blood trickled in a singular current down his face from where his bandages still clung, the renewed flow brought about by recent strenuous activity.

Arthur would make no effort to respond. He simply sustained eye contact with Alfred. The boy's brilliant blue eyes had always electrified while shedding tears. Now they displayed such a vibrant blue, it nearly burned to observe them. Their hue was only further emphasized by the deep crimson blood that streamed down either side of their keepers face. Impressive - That Alfred could still muster defiance after such an ordeal.

Now, with his sun-kissed muscle heaving under blooming bruises, Alfred very much resembled Arthur during the early years of his reign. Still breathing. Still passionate. Still dangerous. He would survive tonight. And tomorrow his resolve would be greater. If nothing else could be said for England's prodigy, it was that he possessed the same stubbornness that had allowed Arthur's survival during youth. The very internal flame necessary to rule the world.

Arthur retreated from the eve of this realization looking back to his attire, pulling and buttoning until the illusion of 'gentleman' was once again complete (though soggy.) He brushed his filthy bangs back, by no means fixing their appearance, but at least removing them from his already-limited range of sight. His chest lifted with a slow intake of breath that was then expelled with resignation.

He neared again, stepping over Alfred as one would overcome a pile of leaking garbage. The Briton would pause just above his foe, peering down without expression. Either boot now framed Alfred's face. The tow of Arthur's right foot would gently tap against his boy's cheekbone to ensure the monotone words to come would be heard. "Best get used to the pain. You will experience it again." Arthur then crouched abruptly, overseeing a fine-tuned flinch. "-Though not from me. The next time I see you, Alfred. _I will kill you_."

Alfred kept eye contact with the other, but as Arthur moved towards him he couldn't help the slight whimper that escaped him as he tried pathetically to crawl away from the other. His body would not obey, it was too tired, too beaten, to move properly.  
As England stood over him, ever the picture of unquestionable control, the American shuddered again. His knees rose slightly, arms curling desperately in a sad caricature of protection. The boot against his face brought the dull ache of renewed pain, though Alfred could scarce think if a part of him that didn't already hurt.  
The words from the other made a sharp stab of fear go through him; the threat of having to go through this sort of experience again was beyond terrifying.  
"I will kill you. "  
Alfred felt like his stomach had fallen out of his body somehow. His eyes stared unblinking up at the other, his very breath held in his chest. A sense of despair covered him like an iron blanket as the absolute truth of those words struck him. He looked, like a drowning man looks for help at sea, for some moment of hesitation. Any hint at all that the other did not consider his death a fact merely yet to happen.  
He found none.  
Laying at the feet of his former comrade, naked, covered in blood, muck, and bruises... He had never felt so hopeless in his life.

Arthur was too old; Too set in his ways to believe any other outcome would allow his continuation as a power. He_ would _kill Alfred. Because that's what he would** have **to do. Never mind that he hadn't tonight - Never mind that his enemy still boasted a beating heart and inflated lungs. Arthur had left the colony alive because...because...it was in his power. _Yes._ When the time came, England had no (DOUBT) that his hand would act without hesitation. (...no Doubt.)  
(...no...)  
(...Doubt...)

Alfred would be left without further injury. His tormentor stood and quietly stepped aside like a passing shadow. The evening was setting in and with it, an ominous chill that would serve to stiffen Alfred's already wounded body. His attacker would offer no further commentary. The crisp swish of water meeting his boots would be his only goodbye as he began his trek back through the river that had witnessed their meeting. He would gingerly bend to pick up his rifle on the way, unwilling to leave such an expensive piece of equipment behind.

Alfred watched the stiff British man leave. Felt to cool air touch his skin. He was afraid, alone. The American felt as though he had been ripped apart by the other. His body was a tapestry of suffering, a bruise the shape of a hand that once showed him how to skip a rock across the still surface of a lake now marred his hip. Blood and dirt stuck to him like a second skin.  
Slowly, the sounds of evening came to his ears. His body began to shiver in the cold, but he hardly noticed. The shape of the other man still haunted his sight. The scent of his sweat lingered on his skin.  
He should go to the river and wash off. He should get back to camp. Sneak in, let no one see. Alfred knew what he should do... Instead, he wrapped his arms around himself and wept, knowing that the memory of this night was burned into him forever. He would never forget, never be allowed to forget.  
Alfred cried until his tears ran dry, and even that didn't feel like enough as the chill of the night settled in around him.


End file.
